Page 3 of The Devil's Pawn

“Coffee sounds lovely,” Mom pipes up. “But I’m sure Scott wouldn’t say no to something a little stronger.”

Dad’s easy laugh is a dagger to my heart. I wasn’t sure how he’d react when this day finally came, and I guess a part of me had hoped he’d be a little more… reserved. Instead, he’s practically crawling up Charles De Vil’s ass.

Mom isn’t much better, fluttering her eyelashes at Charles, and giggling as if she’s eighteen rather than forty-four.

But whatever they’ve done, I love my parents. They might have benefitted from this agreement, but they truly believe they’re securing a wonderful future for me by pressing ahead with this marriage.

Charles orders the manservant, whose name I learn is Alan, to fetch the drinks. Meanwhile, I sit in silence, picking at a loose thread on my knee-length, bright yellow dress scattered with blue forget-me-nots. It’s nothing like I’d have chosen to wear if anyone had bothered to ask me. It’s far too bright to suit my mood. Gray would have been better. Or black for mourning.

When I raise my gaze, Alexander’s eyes are on me, his face a blank canvas.Despite my earlier pledge to play the long game, I glower. One side of his mouth curls in to an almost smile.

Or it could be gas. Who’s to know?

Irritated by his continued silence, my promises to play the respectful and compliant fiancée scatter like dust motes in the air.

“So…” I stare daggers at my future husband. “Have you mastered the art of thrilling conversation, or is this performance a special treat just for me?”

Chapter Two

ALEXANDER

My future wife sits primly, her right foot tucked behind the ankle of her left, her knees pressed together, as her parents no doubt drummed into her. She’s resting her hands in her lap, and to those who aren’t paying attention, she’s coming across as the epitome of a perfect, submissive, soon-to-be-bride befitting of the heir to the De Vil Dynasty. Namely, me.

It’s her eyes that give her away.

Behind the dazzling green is a steely defiance as she flicks her gaze to me. Miss Imogen Salinger isn’t the timid soul my father led me to believe she was.

Thank God.

It’ll make this sham of a marriage a lot more interesting if my wife isn’t a doormat. There’s not much fun in a lion playing with a mouse. The kill is over far too quickly. No, much better that my adversary is a lioness, even if she’s pretending otherwise, probably for the sake of her parents.

Her bright yellow dress covered with blue forget-me-nots is all wrong. It’s too innocent. And while her parents haveassured my father she’s still a virgin, her virtue is the only thing innocent about her.

Not that I’m interested in taking her virginity. I’ve only agreed to go through with this marriage because it is expected of me. Not only are arranged marriages the norm in my family, but disobeying the head of the household and defaulting on his orders could mean losing our position in The Consortium.

It’s happened before. My father often tells the story of the French Baudelaire family who were evicted from The Consortium because the heir refused to follow his father’s orders. In that instance, it wasn’t in relation to a marriage, but his insubordination showed the head of the household had lost control, and their privileges were revoked. Shortly afterward, another family spotted their weakness, moved in, and the Baudelaires lost everything.

Not all Consortium families follow the tradition of arranged marriages, but it has been that way in my family for a millennium or more. My duty is to comply with this outdated tradition, even if I don’t intend to stay married.

The biggest issue facing my longer-term plans is that my father will never grant me a divorce. Apparently, the only way for me to escape this ill-fated union is for Miss Salinger to end it. And I intend to make sure that she does. I’ll play the game, move the chess pieces until they’re exactly where I want them to be, then bide my time until I get what I want.

Which I will.

There isn’t a doubt in my mind. I’m a winner in whatever challenge I set my sights on. It won’t be easy, but Iwillemerge the victor from this pointless union. Then I’ll be free to live the life I intended for myself—one of solitude, where I can nurse my grief in peace.

Not that I intend to share any of this with the intriguing Miss Salinger. I aim to make her so miserable, she’ll demand a divorce. From what I know of her, she’s quite the social butterfly. If I isolate her, she will capitulate much faster.

And speed is of the essence. The more time passes without an heir on the way, the greater the chance of my father probing and discovering my wife remains untouched, then demanding answers as to why. I can’t allow this to drag on for months on end, nor will I contemplate the idea of children, no matter what’s expected of me. After what happened to my sister, the idea of having children, of putting them at risk in a world that’s growing evermore dangerous, isn’t something I’m willing to do.

As much as she must think of my family and me as heartless, I do have some sympathy for Imogen’s plight. It can’t be easy for a twenty-one-year-old to be ripped from her home and brought to a foreign country to marry a man she’s never met—one significantly older, with far more life experience. She has no more say in our wedding than I do, and if things were different, that commonality may have given us a level playing field on which to meet. But it’s a moot point, given what I have to do if I’m to force her hand into asking me for a divorce.

I catch her gaze, confrontation swimming in her green irises. A blast of heat in my groin is surprising enough that I shift in my seat. I have a type, and green-eyed, redheaded, curvy women are it. My father couldn’t have known that’s how Imogen would turn out when Scott Salinger signed over his daughter’s future to me before she was born, but all I can think is :Bravo, Father. Bravo.

The beginnings of a smile pull at my lips. Another surprise. Usually, I find a scowl comes so mucheasier. Imogen glares at me, the intensity one of a woman who’d like to get her hands on a dagger and drive it through my heart. The thought of her trying is something of a turn on.

I’d like the opportunity to subjugate her.

“So,” she says, fire shooting from her eyes. “Have you mastered the art of thrilling conversation, or is this performance a special treat just for me?”

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